Good Intentions 3: Personal Demons (54 page)

“Oh yeah, right,” he muttered.

Seated beside him, Taylor patted his arm. “C’mon, it’ll be fine. Maybe Hector will let you come visit them some time?”

His sad expression turned to a scowl. “Y’all’re just funnin’ with me now.”

“What?” asked Onyx.

“The accent gets thicker with bad moods,” Taylor explained. “Wade. We gotta do it. Hector wants his guns back. Besides, they’re a complication for Amber, remember?”

“Yeah, she’s got enough to deal with right now,” Molly agreed. “Those guns are illegal, but if they disappear she doesn’t have to worry about it. There’s no
habeas corpus
, right?”

“That ain’t how
habeas corpus
works, an’ y’all know it. Besides, we left shell casings an’ bullet holes all over the place. Drew
habeas corpused
the fuck outta the top side of the whole building!”

“Yeah, that was pretty awesome,” teased Onyx.

“That’s what ah’m sayin’,” he grumbled. “Damn. Ah finally find somethin’ t’ give mahself a purpose in life again, an’ y’all wanna give it right back the next day.”

Taylor rolled her eyes. “Okay, now he’s fucking with us,” she translated.

“Ah. Let’s go,” said Molly. She opened her door.

“Wait. Ah got a text.” Wade fished his phone out of his jacket pocket. “It’s Jason. He wants to know if we’re takin’ the guns back. See? He thinks it’s a bad idea, too.”

“Gimme that.” Taylor snatched the phone from his hands. She typed in a single word: “Yes.”

“You’ve got fast hands,” said Onyx before she stepped out.

“Ah know, right?” Wade agreed. “Y’know what you should maybe take up? Shootin’.”

“Whatever. I shot like that one vampire guard months ago and then one demon last night.”

“Yeah, an’ you did it right both times.” He seemed a little more serious now. “You took care of the problems before they hurt anyone. You got shit done. That bit with the couch blocked a whole tactical entry an’ pro’bly saved us all. Don’t compare yourself to any crazy supernatural heroics bullshit. That’s as much luck as anything else. You pull your weight every time.”

She leaned back, looking Wade in the eye for any sign of insincerity. She found none. Taylor didn’t know what to say.

Wade’s phone buzzed in her hand. Jason’s reply came in all capital letters: “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” Rolling her eyes once more, Taylor handed back the phone and slipped out of the car.

“He’s got a reasonable question,” Wade muttered.

Molly had already popped the trunk and shouldered the rifle bags. Onyx watched the street. The group walked around the corner to the front door of Hector’s shop, having seen the “open” light come on just as they hunted for parking. Molly threw open the entrance and strode in at the head of her small party. “Hi, Hector. I didn’t think you’d be here. Figured you were a ‘closing shift’ kinda guy.”

The proprietor stood at the front counter, going over paperwork with one of his assistants. “Closing shift misses happy hour,” said Hector. “Why would I take that hit? Good to see you, Molly. Onyx. Solja Man. And who are you?”

“This is Taylor,” said Onyx.

“Hi.” Taylor took in the image of the two men behind the counter and the wide spread of weapons in the glass cases and along the walls. “Nice place,” she ventured.

“Ain’t it?” Wade agreed.

“You bringin’ back my guns already?” Hector asked as Molly set the bag down on the counter. “I heard there was trouble downtown last night. Know anything about that?”

“Ah’d guess at least a couple of the guns involved ain’t gonna show up on ballistics records,” said Wade.

The gunsmith unzipped the bag and quickly looked over his wares. He frowned at the sight of the assault rifle. “Is that blood?”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Molly. “Things got a little rough.”

“Apparently.”

“Ah was gonna clean ‘em, but the ladies here thought we ought’a get ‘em home as soon as we could,” explained Wade.

“More like we thought you were dragging your feet,” muttered Onyx.

“An’ now y’all know better than to doubt me.”

“So it’s done?” Hector looked to Molly and Onyx. “Already?”

Molly dropped Leon’s broken aviator sunglasses on the counter. “It’s done. The ones who are still left aren’t going to be coming back in this lifetime.”

Hector’s eyebrows rose. He lifted the glasses more out of curiosity than doubt. “Given who you run with, I guess I shouldn’t ask you to elaborate.”

“That’d be helpful, yeah,” said Onyx.

“Are we square?” asked Molly. “Can we be friends again?”

One side of his mouth twitched into a grin. “I guess I shouldn’t be one to judge people for havin’ some shady friends, eh?” He offered his hand to Molly and the others in turn after she shook it. Then he tilted his head. “Taylor, was it?”

“Yeah.” She accepted the handshake with a smile. Her attention fell back to the guns in the glass cases. “Hey, how much do these cost?”

Wade’s eyes lit up. He stepped beside her. “Especially the ones with the magic kick,” he added helpfully. “Never know when all Hell’s gonna break loose. Again.”

* * *

The war for Perdition raged on.

Defenders fought tooth and claw without further guidance from on high. Lacking leadership or strategy, their battle became a desperate struggle of self-interest and pride.

Few of Azazel’s demons relished the prospects of a new and vengeful mistress or submission to her armies. The surety of rebirth within the Pit made death in battle or through torture no less dreadful than it was for mortals. Though no word came from Azazel or his generals, their forces fought with their all.

The invaders suffered a similar lack of coordination, though for them it changed their behavior almost instantly. One moment, they fought for the Lady. The next, they fought for themselves. A unified army became a collection of mobs, each under the leadership of whatever champion or former lieutenant could exert influence over the rest. The invasion turned to a wild scramble for territory. For the first time in memory, freedom lay within their grasp.

Killing and torment raged around the palace. Losses mounted on all sides. Only servitors, imps, and other comparatively weak demons cried out for mercy or offered surrender. The rest fought for survival and one kind of freedom or another.

The appearance of a common enemy changed the dynamic again. They crashed through the battle at the palace gates as a single wedge, showing neither mercy nor fear. Though they came in fewer numbers than either Azazel’s armies or Lorelei’s hordes, they arrived fresh on the field, unified and organized.

Their master led from the front. He towered over most of his foes, singling out the strongest on each side that he might cow the rest with displays of his savagery and might. The demon lord fought with a blade in each hand, shattering weapons and defenses with every blow. His barbed crown glowed with an unsettling green light to match that of his eyes. Some mistook his charred and blackened skin as a sign of injury rather than seeing it for the armor that it was. Others knew they could not stand against him.

Belial would not be denied.

His direct involvement on the field made up for the necessary division of his forces. He’d kept his servants at the ready for months to exploit the inevitable vulnerabilities of Baal’s realm once Lorelei came back to claim the crown. Now he saw even greater power within his grasp. He could not secure the otherwise undefended realm of Baal without investing a significant portion of his armies, yet only a fool would ignore an opportunity like this. Most of the work had already been done for him.

He only needed to reclaim his wayward slave to complete his conquest.

Belial led the way into the palace, crushing and gutting any resistance. He flung the last of Azazel’s champions down the hallway to the throne room in four ugly, bloody pieces to herald his arrival. The floor shook with his every step.

Inside the devastated throne room, Belial recognized demons loyal to Azazel and those who once served Baal. Not one raised a hand against him. At first, he thought none of them dared. Then he noticed the stunned, bewildered look in their eyes. That they shrank from him made sense, but he soon realized they had long since stopped fighting one another, too.

Then Belial looked to the far end of the chamber and understood why.

Azazel hung from the wall beside his own throne. His bloodied and mauled arms were raised high above his head, pinned in place by iron spikes driven through each hand. More of the same spikes impaled his legs, his tail, and the shredded remains of his wings. Blood still dripped from open wounds. His head sagged from his shoulders without any sign of life. His crown, formerly brilliant and glorious, now dangled from one of his horns as a dull trinket.

Written above him was a single sentence, scrawled in a black script that could only have been drawn with Azazel’s own blood: “This is your final warning.”

No one spoke. The collection of demons made way for Belial, revealing corpses, pools of blood, and even craters in the floor. He strode across the chamber to the throne without a second glance toward his new servants.

The silence served his interests. Once at the top of the dais, Belial paused and listened for a breath or a whispered word from the defeated lord mounted on the wall. He heard nothing. Belial reached up with his sword to pluck the crown from Azazel’s horn. It slipped down to the hilt of his blade with only the sound of metal sliding against metal. The crown appeared completely drained of life, like its former owner looming above.

“Those who would avoid my wrath will secure my new domain,” Belial ordered. His fingers traced the edges of the crown in search of any hint of power. “Any who try my patience further shall suffer dearly. We have borders to defend…and a slave to recapture.”

“So typical,” said a voice behind him.

The words preceded a rush of scurrying feet and beating wings. Belial’s audience fled the chamber, though as he turned he doubted their haste came from an urge to please him. In their place, Belial found a lone woman at the foot of the dais.

Lilith raised her hands to gesture at the display behind him. “She has spelled her wishes out in blood, yet you can’t take the hint. You don’t need a crown. You need a fedora.”

The larger demon’s eyes narrowed. His fists tightened around the grips of his weapons. The crown hanging from the hilt of his sword slipped against one finger again, reminding Belial of his own spent power—and his diluted forces. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Most of the same things you want, though I’m willing to let
that
one go.” She gestured again to the writing on the wall above Azazel. “I can’t see how she could possibly be worth this much trouble. But what I think I really need is a matching decoration on the other side of my throne.”

Only one other demon remained as battle shook the chamber yet again. She stayed huddled behind the throne, taking full advantage of the cover provided by every flash of magic and howl of pain.

Lydia had thought herself doomed when the scouts found her. Doubly so when they carried her in their arms over the raging battle around Azazel’s palace. As it turned out, their timing couldn’t have been better. The scouts delivered her too late to meet their mistress, but before Mandah had finished her final task.

No one knew what Lorelei had ever wanted with the other succubus. Lacking instruction in the middle of a war, everyone looked to their own interests. Even Mandah gave her only a brief, indifferent glance before she flew off on her own. The scouts followed. No one cared if Lydia slipped away. No one stopped her from shuffling up the dais, fiery ball and chain dragging behind her with each step. No one kept her from examining the defeated prince beside the throne, or from prying loose one of the spikes that pinned him to the wall.

Others filtered into the chamber before she could make use of her discovery. Though most of them stood slack-jawed and stupid at the sight of Azazel’s fate, their presence meant she couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. Her enchantments of stealth could only barely cover up the light of her ball and chain on a good day.

Then came Belial, and those few endless moments of dread. Best not to think of how that might turn out. Not with the chance for freedom literally in her grasp.

She didn’t let this new battle go to waste. The iron spike from Baal’s crown dug a painful cut along her shin, but she endured it to slip the shard between her flesh and the fiery clasp above her ankle. The flames diminished almost instantly. Her bond weakened and bent under even the slightest effort.

A final tug broke through the burning clasp. With a brilliant flash, the burning ball and chain rolled free and disappeared. She winced and renewed the enchantment that kept her hidden, but she needn’t have worried. The demon lord and his eventual conqueror never noticed Lydia’s presence or her escape.

* * *

“Right, so we’re going to leave the extradimensional issues alone on this one,” decided agent Nguyen. She closed up the laptop on the dining room table in front of her—a table only useable by virtue of a tablecloth pulled from the laundry.